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The Azaadi we all dream of

As a young man in Calcutta I watched the freedom struggle in East Pakistan from very close quarters. I saw the making of Bangladesh.

The war out there, to put it simply, was based on two premises. One, the refusal of the Bengalis to allow the rulers in West Pakistan to ride roughshod over the Bengali language which they spoke and loved while the rulers were hell bent on making Urdu the national language so that they could unite the nation under one flag, one language. This is always the dream of a dictatorial regime, to subvert diversity and enforce unanimity under the garb of nationalism. Pakistan made the same mistake. And two, the brave refusal of the young students of East Pakistan to be browbeaten by the Government and the Pakistani army stationed out there. The campus was the first war of resistance. Poetry was the artillery of that war. Rabindranath Tagore was their inspiration and the students armed by the poets of Bangladesh with words as their weapons took on what then looked like an undefeatable enemy, the mighty Pakistani army– unafraid.

And, as we all know, they won. Bangladesh was born.

One of my favourite poets of the war was Shamsur Rahman whose poems inspired not just the young students across the border but also us who believed in their cause and identified with it. We too were very angry when attempts were made to impose Hindi on us. It was not a language we identified with or loved to any great extent. It was seen as the language of the rulers, the UP-Bihar lot who ran Delhi and made all its policies grossly prejudiced to promote what they saw as their own interests. We saw it as Hindi imperialism. That is why we so easily identified with the young students of East Pakistan who raised the banner of protest and poetry to take on the brute might of an army that, to us across the border, almost looked like an occupying force. It was sheer magic, the fact that they could fight those guns with words and refuse to be part of a nation they did not believe in any more.

I translated many poets from across the border at the time. One of the poems was Shamsur Rahman’s famous poem on freedom. I do not recall the exact words of my translation and the three books I did at that time are no longer with me but I remember the poem went somewhat like this:

Freedom, you areTagore’s immortal poetry, his words that will never die.

Freedom, you areKazi Nazrul, the wild haired poet enraptured by his own creation.

Freedom, you areThe frenzied crowd at the Martyrs Memorial on Language Day.

Freedom, you areThe wrinkles on my mother’s sari stretched out in the sun.

Freedom, you areThe colours of the henna on my sister’s hands.

Freedom, you areThe placard raised by my friend in protest.

Freedom, you areMy wife’s dark raven tresses untamed in the wind.

Freedom, you areThe colourful kurta a young boy wearsThe playful sunlight on a girl’s face.

Freedom, you areMy home amidst a garden of flowers, bird songAnd the rustle of leaves on the banyan treeThe poems I write in my journal, as I please.

The last line says it all.

Replace the word freedom with azaadi and you will figure what our students are trying to say in their own faltering words. Be it in JNU or BHU or wherever they are protesting. The best years of college are not meant for studying for a career; they are meant to show where your heart lies, what your conscience speaks for. That’s what we grew up learning. That’s what brought meaning to our lives in the tumultuous sixties.

I know times have changed. I know the young today dream of conquering the world. We did the same, as we raised our banners of protest and stood up for what we thought was good and honest and the right thing to do. That was the nationalism we learnt from Tagore and Vivekananda and Vidyasagar; that was the dream that lured us through the darkest of times. That’s what Jaiprakash Narayan taught us during the Emergency months.

Students always set the stage for national politics. That is why, across campuses today, student unions are finally uniting to defeat the Sangh Parivar’s student wing, the ABVP. Be it in JNU or Hyderabad University or Gauhati University or Delhi University or Rajasthan University, the pattern appears to be the same. There is a perceptible change. The winds of azaadi are blowing. Different groups with different political allegiances are getting together to take on the mighty ABVP—and, yes, winning again and again.

It is time for all of us to learn from these students how to put together a winning team. And back the dream of a new India that looks beyond the promised fantasies of money and power (and back-breaking taxes that have crippled us all) and talk about a new nation fashioned on the politics of hope and change and the courage to look beyond the clichés of hyper nationalism and unbridled hate. That will be the India you and I and everyone around us can identify with.

DISCLAIMER : Views expressed above are the author's own.

Author

Pritish Nandy writes, paints, makes movies and occasionally, when he wins an election, sits in Parliament. He has been writing for The Times of India for over 26 years. In "Extraordinary Issue", he talks to all those who find his views controversial, challenging, charming or even utterly despicable. Just one small caveat. Nandy is always on the move, travelling for a film, writing a book, working on an exhibition of his paintings. Or simply eating lotus. So there could be occasional gaps, the odd delay. But Nandy is Nandy. He never ignores a barb, never lets a compliment go by without swatting it hard.

Pritish Nandy writes, paints, makes movies and occasionally, when he wins an election, sits in Parliament. He has been writing for The Times of India for ov. . .

Author

Pritish Nandy writes, paints, makes movies and occasionally, when he wins an election, sits in Parliament. He has been writing for The Times of India for over 26 years. In "Extraordinary Issue", he talks to all those who find his views controversial, challenging, charming or even utterly despicable. Just one small caveat. Nandy is always on the move, travelling for a film, writing a book, working on an exhibition of his paintings. Or simply eating lotus. So there could be occasional gaps, the odd delay. But Nandy is Nandy. He never ignores a barb, never lets a compliment go by without swatting it hard.

Pritish Nandy writes, paints, makes movies and occasionally, when he wins an election, sits in Parliament. He has been writing for The Times of India for ov. . .